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After a high-speed train ride followed by a long bus journey. Ten hours later, I arrived at a small, underdeveloped mountain village.
The scenery was breathtaking. As I walked down the main street, the air was filled with the sweet, earthy scent of wild roses and honeysuckle from vines climbing over stone walls.
The street market was lively. Best of all, people looked at me without scorn or mockery. Seeing my luggage, they warmly offered suggestions on how to find a place to stay.
Following their advice, I rented a cheap, cozy little yard at the foot of the mountain.
Next door lived a young woman.
Her name was Chloe—a 21-year-old artist here for inspiration. Youthful and vibrant.
Chloe had been here almost a year and was familiar with this village. She eagerly filled me in on everything—the nearest supermarket, hospital—and even helped me tidy up my new place.
She suggested, “The sunlight here is perfect for a study. When you're tired from reading or gaming, just relax on the recliner in the yard.”
A study?
Such a distant concept.
Back in the marital home, I'd only entered the study once. I meant to clean it but accidentally broke the frame holding a cherished photo of Evelyn and her first love.
That day, Evelyn was furious. She slapped me hard and screamed that I was never allowed in the study again.
Since then, “study” became a forbidden word for me, always conjuring the sting of that slap and the sheer disgust in her eyes.
Noticing my discomfort, Chloe suddenly declared loudly,
“Hey, want to hear a joke? A strawberry and a banana got into a fight. Who won?”
When I didn't answer, she grinned: “The strawberry—because bananas are soft!”
The joke was lame, but she laughed so hard she couldn't stop.
Suddenly, I found myself laughing too—laughing until tears welled up.
After years of being worn down by Evelyn, I realized: laughing could be this simple.
The study, Evelyn. Maybe I didn't have to care anymore.
Even after ten days gone, Evelyn hadn't contacted me.
And strangely, it didn't hurt as much.
